


Hunting Game

by TheLynx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Character, Disabled Character, Fluff, M/M, PTSD, Psychosis, Romance, Tourette's Syndrome, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLynx/pseuds/TheLynx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and the Inquisitor have had an excellent relationship so far, but they, like all happy couples, have some issues to work through. And, like all good people in Thedas, enemies who want them dead.</p><p>Takes place a few months after In Your Heart Shall Burn. No major spoilers for any main quests past that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Useful"

“Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dorian regretted them. Mahanon quickly stepped back from him, trying to hide his surprise and pain. They had been touching just a moment ago, sharing a kiss in a corner of the moonlit library, but now it felt as if there was a wall between them, erected by Dorian’s poor word choice. “Why?” Mahanon asked slowly, confusion obvious in his voice as his head tilted slightly.

They had been together for over two months now—well, depending on one’s definition of “together”. They had been flirting even longer than that, but the kisses, touches, and eventual tenderness had been going on for about that long. Whispers flew around the Inquisition about the two of them, some rumors kind, and some that made both of them cringe in disgust. Still, the two of them had stopped caring a long time ago. As a rebellious Tevinter mage and a Dalish apostate hailed as an Andrastian figure, they had more than their fill of outrageous stories in circulation.

While the past month had been rough on the both of them, considering all the events going on, it hadn’t affected their relationship negatively at all, only making it stronger. At least, that’s what Mahanon had thought. Was he wrong? Did Dorian regret opening up to him, regret trying to make this relationship about love as well as sex?

Dorian shook his head and tried to explain himself. “It’s not about you or anything you’ve done, amatus,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair as he sorted out his words and avoided his lover’s emerald gaze, painfully trying to ignore the tics on Mahanon’s face as he became increasingly distressed. “I simply do not believe this arrangement, useful as it is, will end in a desirable fashion.”

Shit. He’d said the wrong thing. The Inquisitor, biting his lower lip, just nodded and turned away, leaving him alone in the library with only his books and half-melted candles to keep him company.

Dorian gave an exasperated sigh and glared at the book he had left open on the nearby table, trying to will the blame for this situation onto the innocent work. That was not the conversation he had intended to have. _Why did I lose my words this time? Oh, Maker help me, I can’t push him away like this…_

Mahanon continued onto his quarters, face expressionless—something he was not used to, but had learned quickly through human politics. The only thing betraying his emotions to any late-night wanderers in the keep would have been the twitching of his mouth and the chirps that escaped his throat. They usually weren’t this bad, but the mounting distress as thoughts rushed through his mind made them difficult to control.

Was it something he’d done? Dorian had said no, but the man could have been lying. Was he uncomfortable about him being Dalish? Sera and Solas had expressed their distaste, and the Tevinter was definitely a devout Andrastian… it may have only been a matter of time until that came up again. Or was it too strange, an elf and a human? Something Dorian disapproved of, but had tried out regardless?

And that one word. What about their relationship was “useful”? Fuck “useful”, Mahanon loved the man! Had risked his life for him! Would do it again, over and over. And he had been given the same promise from the other mage. So where had this gone wrong? What had happened?

Perhaps his cousin had been right—he shouldn’t have trusted humans. But what was he supposed to do when he was surrounded by them and the only other elves around him hated the Dalish?

Pausing for a moment as he rested his fingers on his personal desk, the elf had a quick thought and spun around, heading straight back out the door.

* * *

 

“You can keep a straight face better than an Orlesian noble,” complimented Varric, mildly impressed with Mahanon’s latest win at Wicked Grace. The Iron Bull and Krem opted to scowl playfully at him instead.

Of course, his “straight face” was more of a permanent frown anyway. He hadn’t spoken once since getting to the tavern, sliding in to join the late-night game and sip a drink.

Or five shots. He wasn’t counting.

Varric was.

The dwarf gave a slight nod at the other two as he gathered his cards, indicating that they should leave him to speak privately with his friend, for whom he ordered a generous glass of water (which earned him a rather unpleasant glare, to which he responded with an innocent shrug). The elf had stopped ticcing, a not-so-good sign when it came to alcohol.

“Okay, what’s the deal here? Get into a fight with the templar? Or Solas? Or… no, nothing happened between you and Sparkler, did it?”

Mahanon drank his water with a glare, letting out a chirp at that last one and scowling as his body betrayed him. He half-considered snatching up his friend’s drink, but decided he wouldn’t embarrass himself further.

Varric gave a long sigh. “Look, whatever he said to you, I don’t know, he probably didn’t mean to hurt you if he did. Unless it was you who said something to him, in which case, it’s probably not your fault?” he offered, grasping at straws. He loved the elf, really, and he tried hard to help, but sometimes he just couldn’t get anything out of him.

Thankfully, he started talking, but it didn’t help much. “He wants to end this,” he growled, looking down at his water as he swirled it in the glass. He moped for another minute or two in silence before continuing. “I’m an elf, I’m Dalish, I’m just there for him to play with until I’m no longer useful. A fascination. Only an interest until he finds something new, just like everything else he does.”

This time he did try to swipe Varric’s drink, but the dwarf, relatively sober, was quick enough to save it.

“And did he say that, or did you come up with that theory on your own?” asked Varric, shaking his head. There was no way Dorian would say something like that, even if he was Tevinter. Not that Varric knew him as well as he would have liked, but he could tell there was more to him and his relationship with Mahanon.

“Pretty sure he said it,” mumbled the elf, before he starting speaking to himself under his breath in Elvish, presumably cursing Dorian and the Maker. There weren’t enough Common words in his speech for Varric to make out anything that made sense.

They stayed there for another hour or so, occasionally trying to make conversation, until Varric felt the Inquisitor was able to head back to his chambers unescorted without falling. He sent him off out of the bar, watching him walk drowsily but steadily up to the keep.

* * *

 

Mahanon woke to a fierce headache, cringing as the morning sunlight stabbed his poor eyes. He cursed when he nearly fell out of bed, and wondered why he let himself get drunk at all last night. It was rather blurry in his memory, but he vaguely remembered playing cards, and—

Oh. Right. Dorian.

Groaning, he pushed himself out of bed and rubbed his neck, trying to gain control over a sudden bout of distressed tics. He really hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night, which meant today would be absolutely awful, running between his advisors and messengers and Dorian. Unless he skipped the mage for today, which might be a good idea. He had to sort out his thoughts on their relationship before speaking with him again.

On the other hand, he was very not fond of the papers piling up on his desk. He could’ve sworn the stack was half that size just last night. But he had been putting it off long enough, so he sighed and started working through the pages that most needed his attention. His advisors wouldn’t miss him for the morning, and he didn’t quite feel up for breakfast just yet.

Thoughts of Dorian swam about in his mind. His sweet laugh, the way he grinned after particularly clever wordplay, the things that he would say to make Mahanon melt… He even found the elf’s tics endearing, something the Inquisitor had thought a joke at first but turned out to be entirely honest. And he’d been so invested in learning more about Dalish culture after the two had decided that yes, their relationship was romantic, not only sexual.

He frowned, remembering bits of things he’d said to Varric last night. It wouldn’t make sense at all for Dorian to reject him for being an elf, or for being different. With his emotions and the drinks, he really hadn’t been thinking clearly.

It was a little past noon now. He finished writing another important letter, then stood—mentally thanking Varric that his headache was only a little bit awful, thanks to the water—and headed out to distribute the papers to the necessary people and then seek out Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started with the prompt “Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?” from writingexercises.co.uk and went from there.


	2. Rifts

Dorian woke up in his room with a start, groaning loudly as someone hammered on the door, the sound just about shattering his skull. Rolling out of bed and shrugging on a jacket—he had to look halfway presentable, even for the despicable sort of people who would awake him in such a rude fashion—he opened the door and looked groggily at Josephine.

Perhaps not _too_ despicable, then.

“Oh, good, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to run across the keep searching for you,” she said, frowning for a second as she glanced at an empty bottle on his desk. Not so good. “A letter came in this morning urgently requesting your presence in Redcliffe. Someone by the name of Flavian, no last name or details provided.”

“As much as I respect the work that you do, my dear Josephine, I can’t recall ‘read Dorian’s letters’ being anywhere on your to-do list,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he took the paper that she handed to him. “Find me suspicious, do you?”

She gave him an amused grin. “As you can very well see, your name is only on the inside, and by that point I was already reading it.” He responded with an exaggerated sigh. “I will not pry, but do take care when meeting with him. You remember the last time anyone from the Inquisition met with Tevinters.”

Meaning the time Dorian had met the Inquisitor and they had been thrown through time. What an unpleasant experience, but with some of the most pleasing results. Although, the last time anyone had met with Tevinters, that had been with his father. Chances were that Josephine knew about that, the same way she knew about anything, but kept it quiet for the sake of politeness.

“An experience I will try my hardest not to recreate, do not worry.” He knew Flavian, a contact that he maintained within the Imperium. It obviously would not do to have his last name, the name of his house, on such a suspicious document, nor the contents of the coming discussion. And if Flavian himself had come, it meant he had important information indeed.

The letter seemed legitimate. “Anything else, ambassador?”

“You may wish to travel with the Inquisitor. He will be heading out to the Hinterlands later today—there have been a number of reports of new rifts developing around the settlements there, and we should close them before too many people are hurt.”

Dorian frowned at that. “I will keep that in mind.” Rifts were not particularly pressing at the moment.

Josephine left then, off to deal with other no doubt important matters, and the mage cleaned, groomed, and dressed himself before leaving himself. He did not want to run into Mahanon today, did not want to have _that_ conversation so soon. There were so many things he could have said last night to not ruin it so thoroughly, and yet he had to pick the ones with the absolute worst wording. Here he was, raised to become a magister, and yet fumbling like a child over words when they mattered most.

It didn’t help that he had seemed as emotionless as stone when he said them. Maker, he still didn’t have a hang of this “honest emotions” thing, too used to games and masking everything with his wit and humor. Did Mahanon think he truly wanted to leave him?

That didn’t matter now, though. He had to meet his contact, sort that out first. The two of them could hopefully cool down enough to talk again once this business was over, and maybe he could join the Inquisitor later to seal those rifts.

Dorian walked briskly out of his room, navigating the awkward architecture of Skyhold—so unlike everything in Tevinter—until he just about ran into Varric. The dwarf tried to speak with him, and fear began to rise in Dorian. This was definitely about Mahanon, wasn’t it? They were friends, he knew that, and he absolutely did not want to talk about this now. “Don’t worry about me, I’m off to Redcliffe now, getting a head start,” he said, perhaps a bit too loudly (or was that just his hangover?), walking straight past him and not listening to a word he said.

“Redcliffe?” he heard Varric ask. He’d find out from someone soon enough about the rifts, no need to stop and talk to him about anything that could possibly turn to the topic of Mahanon.

And so Dorian was on his way, grabbing a horse and supplies and rushing out of the keep as fast as possible, while Mahanon was just waking up.

* * *

 

“Hand out papers and find Dorian” turned out to be not nearly as easy as it should have been.

Mahanon was able to send off a few letters with messenger crows before being accosted by Cassandra, who bluntly informed him that his presence was once again requested—or required, since the two were practically synonyms at this point—in the war room. “There is no end of work to be done here, and you’ve got to get on top of things before we leave Skyhold again. Cullen wants us out again by this afternoon if we’re to keep up with everything, so once you’ve met with your advisors, come meet the rest of us by the gates.”

The elf had hoped for some more time at the keep, but it seemed no matter what he did, the work kept on piling up. Letting out a long breath, he said, “Of course, I’ll be there soon.” She nodded and left him to steel himself for the coming discussion.

The meeting in the war room was rather typical and mostly uneventful. Lots of letters from nobles with too many problems, a dash of banter with a few too many snide comments, and even Cullen snapping at the Inquisitor to “Maker, just _rest your face_ for five minutes, won’t you?” (which would have gotten him a fist to the face, if Josephine and Leliana hadn’t stared the two of them down). They were all feeling the strain of their positions now. After having scrambled to set up the Inquisition, and later to sort out repairs to Skyhold, they were finally settling in, which meant their focus had finally fully turned onto the mess that the world had become and their stress levels had skyrocketed.

All in all, Mahanon was out of that room in under an hour, the other three sending their forces to deal with various issues as he went to join his companions after rushing to his quarters again to grab his gear and a stale chunk of bread from yesterday. It wasn’t long before he, alongside most of his closest friends, were headed out on their horses. “More rifts in the Hinterlands,” Cullen had said. _More rifts everywhere,_ Mahanon had thought with a bit of irritation, but kept silent. The Hinterlands had quite a lot of people in the area, and the Inquisition had given them its promise of protection—they couldn’t very well leave the place to get overrun by demons. As much as he wanted to stay behind, maybe even get some well-deserved rest, he made no attempt to argue.

That was one thing he grudgingly liked about the templar: Always focused on action, swift and strong and to the point, especially when others were in danger.

They didn’t make camp until it was well past dark, trying to make as much ground as they could while they still had a day’s worth of energy, despite the cold. After everything was set up and stew was ready, Mahanon grabbed a bowl and sat next to Varric. Everyone else sat in their own groups of two or three and chatted away, as was customary, since they had little else to do and there wasn’t always much time to talk otherwise, considering how often they were out killing things or just trying to stay warm on their mounts. Except for Sera, as she quite loudly declared that she was “tired of all these flea-shitting horses and rot-shit snow,” wolfing down her food in seconds before retiring to her tent. And except for…

“Dorian,” the Inquisitor breathed, suddenly anxious and shifting about as he tried looking for his lover, tics increasing despite his tiredness. He realized the man had been completely silent today, but assumed that was due to their conversation the previous night, not because he _wasn’t there_. Did he stay back at the keep? Was he really that upset?

Varric held up a finger and finished his mouthful before speaking. “He went on ahead this morning,” he said with a sympathetic look on his face. “I was going to give him a talk after what you said yesterday—you know, be the nice guy who makes the happy couple fall in love all over again, sighing at the sunset and sending each other copper marigolds—but he just waved me off and said he was going on ahead of the group. Wouldn’t even listen to me. Maybe he’s trying to think things over on his own, no matchmaker involved. He might even come join our camp in a day or two.”

“All because I didn’t listen to what he had to say,” Mahanon mumbled into his stew.

“Speaking of which, what exactly _did_ he say? You weren’t really, how do I say this… You were freaking out, but you were drunk, and I hate to be so mistrusting of you, dear Inquisitor, but I know better than to believe the things people say when they’re upset _and_ drinking.”

The elf snorted. “Wise decision.” He had another bite of stew before setting it aside, mostly untouched. Some of the others were starting to head into their tents for the night, and Blackwall signaled to the two of them to take first watch tonight, not wanting to interrupt or intrude upon their conversation. Fair enough.

“Dorian… didn’t exactly say he wanted to end our relationship. But he implied it. Kind of. A lot. Not really?” He shrugged, still a bit confused on everything but still trying to sort it out. He paused for a moment to let a small fit of tics pass over his face before resuming. “Something about it all ending badly. Which is still talk of it ending.”

Varric frowned. “Nothing about you being an elf?”

“Nothing. At least, I don’t think so. Creators, I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk,” Mahanon groaned, placing a hand on his face. “He said—I _think_ he said—something about it not being about me, or not being about him. But there’s not very many reasons for there to be an issue between us, are there? Is there something I’m missing?”

At this point, Cassandra and Vivienne, not eavesdropping but understanding the topic of the conversation going on and having run out of things to talk about between themselves (assuming they had had any to being with, past barely-polite small talk), headed to their tents, leaving just the two of them outside now.

“I’m not sure what it is, but he doesn’t seem the kind of guy who’d leave you over that, Tevinter or not.”

Mahanon stilled for a second as another worry came into his head, making his mouth go dry. “What if he’d leave me for someone else?” he asked before thinking about it, wincing and chirping after he’d let the words out. Months ago, saying things without mulling them over in his mind was his standard, but he’d had to let that go if he was to deal with people outside of his clan. Now, speaking his mind on impulse was almost foreign to him. At least this was Varric, and not a human.

The dwarf let out a small chuckle, not at all minding the openness. “Have you _seen_ the way he looks at you? And I think the only other people he spends a lot of time with are Cassandra and Iron Bull. Cassandra, well, she’s not his type—could you even imagine those two?—and Iron Bull respects you way too much to get involved with him, even if he wanted to.” He sighed, no longer joking. “Whatever it is, all I can really say is that you’ll have to ask him. Hopefully not on an empty stomach.”

“Like I should have yesterday.” Mahanon started halfheartedly picking at his meal again, hungry but not wanting to eat.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’ll see him again soon enough, likely once he starts getting tired of being cold in the snowy mountains all on his own and pining for that dashing fire mage of his.”

Varric got a small smile out of him with that. Even if it faded away rather quickly, it was something, and he wanted to get his friend back in a good mood, especially if they were going to keep watch for a few more hours.

“So, did I ever tell you about the time where I saved Hawke from a dragon?”


	3. The Hunt Begins

After a few days in the bone-chilling cold of the mountains, it was a relief for the companions to finally reach the forests of the Hinterlands and shake the snow off their cloaks, and Cole’s mood brightened considerably at the collective lift in everyone’s spirits. It didn’t take much time before they had left the forest, and they stopped briefly at one of the Inquisition’s permanent camps to have a quick lunch and sort out the details for the day.

After they had all eaten, Lavellan laid out a map on one of the camp’s worn tables, weighing down the corners with a few stones. The companions gathered around the table as he explained what was going on. “There’s some settlements here, to the northwest of Redcliffe, that have been asking for aid from the Inquisition,” he said, pointing to a couple locations around that area of the map. They were some fair distance away from each other and from Redcliffe itself—it would take up a good chunk of time simply to travel there. “Some small problems like bandits and low resources, and they could probably use a boost in morale as well. They’ve been hit hard by recent events, but with Redcliffe so strained, they haven’t gotten the help they need. Sera, Cole, and Vivienne, I think you three would do best helping out there.” The first two enjoyed helping and were therefore pleased. Vivienne, while not being particularly fond of either of them, would be able to deal with any magical and political issues that arose, and make sure the other two didn’t go overboard. “There’s also a rift between the two towns, so keep the demons under control until I make my way up there. I’ll deal with the rifts nearer to here first.

“Bull, Blackwall, and Solas, I need you to manage the problems in the eastern part of the region. There’s been word of smugglers trying to open up more tunnels to access the red lyrium sources, and they may have set up a base nearby. Try to shut it down and collapse the tunnels if necessary.” The Iron Bull grinned and clapped Solas on the back, the poor elf keeping his expression as neutral as possible. Unfortunately for him, the task would not be as stealthy or as bloodless as he’d prefer, but they might end up needing his magic.

That left Varric and Cassandra. “The rifts we’ve heard about were reported by hunters in the south, not far from here. We should be able to see the first of them once we get past that villa,” he told them, placing a few objects on the map to indicate the locations. “We’ll travel east and close the other two, then meet up with those three”—indicating towards the warriors and Solas—“to see how they’re progressing. Then north and east again until we reach the farms, and north to the final rift.”

For as much as Lavellan worried that his leadership skills were lacking, his companions were glad to have him around. He knew how to split responsibilities and figure out who would be best for certain tasks, and had no problems dealing with small groups like theirs. It was certainly much more familiar to what he had been taught as his clan’s First than dealing with entire armies was. “If all goes well, we should reach the northern rift within a week,” he finished, the others responding with a collective nod.

As they all started heading out, Varric gently placed his hand on Mahanon’s arm. “You’re doing fine, kid,” he said. Now that there were just the three of them (and a couple officers, who were tending to their own duties in the camp), the elf had let his stressed tics come back out in full force. “We’ll run into Sparkler soon enough.”

His thoughts had been focused on Inquisition business, but thinking about his boyfriend brought down his mood even more. “Rifts first, Dorian later,” he said roughly, jerking his arm back from Varric. Whatever Dorian was up to, it was his own business, and he wouldn’t worry about the other mage for now.

At Varric’s slightly surprised and hurt expression, he mumbled, “Ma serannas, lethallin.” _You are such an ass, Mahanon. This isn’t Varric’s fault._

The three took off from the camp in silence. They had instructed an officer to bring their horses to one of the eastern camps so that they wouldn’t be hurt or killed by demons or bandits, so they headed to their destination on foot.

“Fenedhis,” Mahanon muttered as they approached the villa, letting out a couple of chirps. While there were no longer any bandits there, he could tell from a distance that the place was swarming with red templars, the angry red lyrium glinting bright as metal when it caught the sunlight. He had hoped to simply walk past the villa, but there was no way they could manage that many templars at once.

Quickly analyzing the situation, he decided on a direction. If they went east around the villa, they would have to backtrack and lose an extra hour; if they went further west than they already were, they’d risk getting caught, but reach the rift before nightfall. “We’ll head up onto the plateau through the western forest,” he announced, and the other two nodded their assent. Their awkward silence became less awkward as they worked on keeping hidden from the templars.

Unfortunately, they ran into a few of them shortly after entering the woods. Varric noticed them first, signaling to the other two to hide. He crouched behind a bush while Mahanon and Cassandra hid behind trees, moving as quickly as they could. The three held their breath as the templars walked agonizingly slowly on their patrol, the companions faintly able to feel the sickly heat of the red lyrium. The templars—four of them, from what Mahanon could hear—were almost at a safe enough range again for the three to start moving again.

Mahanon let out a fit of coughs right then, unable to hold it back any longer, and had an absolutely mortified expression on his face. The templars drew their swords and turned back to fight.

One of them was hit in the face with a bolt, going down instantly. Another two were struck by lightning before they could reach the trees, and the third clashed swords with Cassandra as she leapt to defend Mahanon. The mage rushed out of the reach of her blade, then resumed casting, setting off a small fire spell to hit one of the two others as they recovered from getting stunned. The one he hit panicked, and he continued to wear down on them with attacks from his staff. Varric had control of the other one, filling them with bolts.

Barely five minutes passed between the time they were noticed and the time they had four bodies at their feet, one stinking with charred flesh. “Let’s go,” Varric said, and they ran through the forest until they were well away from the corpses and safely south of the villa. They stopped to catch their breath in a clearing, starting to come down a bit from the adrenaline rush.

Mahanon sat down heavily on a tree stump and grimaced, pulling out a roll of bandages from one of his bags. He pulled off his left boot and sock, and his confused companions shared a glance. Hadn’t he been untouched during the fight?

His ankle had started to swell after he had briefly tripped while running. He deftly bandaged it, making sure to keep pressure on it until the bandage was secure, and then he replaced the sock and boot, loosening the buckles a bit.

“Inquisitor, what happened?” Cassandra asked, concerned. There was no way he should be that injured.

The elf grimaced and glanced towards the ground, deciding not to lie. He was awful at it, anyway. “I broke my ankle when Haven fell, when I fell into the caverns,” he said. “It didn’t heal properly, and I think I may have sprained or fractured it this time. I can still walk on it,” he reassured them with a strained smile, but they didn’t seem particularly convinced.

“And you still haven’t looked into healing magics, have you?” the dwarf said.

“Nope. Anyway, sorry about that… you know. Making sounds. I never was cut out for sneaking around.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No, Inquisitor, that’s alright. We were more than a match for them.” If she was annoyed or upset with what had happened, she hid it well. “But I can’t say I see any rifts around here. Are you sure this is the right location?”

“Yes, Cassandra, of course it’s the right…” Mahanon frowned. That really _was_ odd. The trees were thin enough here to be able to see some distance past them, and there was none of the telltale green glow that would indicate a rift. His hand didn’t ache any more than normal, when it should be alive with sharp pain and glowing green sparks if they were as close to the rift as they should have been.

Varric swore and went to arm himself with Bianca, but it was too late. He was frozen by an unseen mage before he could properly load a bolt, and all he could do was watch as Cassandra and Lavellan were hit hard on their heads, expertly knocked out. A leather-clad hand moved in front of his face from behind, shoving a sleeping poison in his mouth as the spell thawed.

The last thing he saw before passing out was a Venatori warrior slinging Mahanon over his shoulder, blood starting to mat his already red hair.

* * *

 

Dorian harrumphed as he ordered another drink from the bartender, glancing around the bar frustratedly. Flavian had requested his presence, and here he was, waiting for the damned man to show up with whatever he needed to talk about. The topic could be any number of things—Venatori, politics, magic—and waiting to find out what was so important that Flavian had traveled all the way from Tevinter to meet him was almost too much. He’d discreetly asked around in case his contact had been seen around Redcliffe, but nobody recognized the description. So the mage sat. And drank. And waited.

It was well past sunset by the time he’d reached the end of the chapter he had been reading in his book, and still Flavian had not arrived. He’d stopped buying drinks by then, and hadn’t decided to socialize, not in the mood to chat with anyone.

 _Perhaps I should seek out Mahanon?_ he thought, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Even if he could make himself useful, that was not a conversation he wanted to have while he was drunk. The last time the two had talked about something serious while drinking… well, Dorian had made an ass of himself that time, too. A rather bad habit he was getting into lately. He’d pried a bit too much into the history of some of the scars on his lover’s body and had found himself back in the library within minutes. Not a very nice memory, and not a very good line of questioning on his account.

Hearing a voice with a Tevinter accent speak with the barkeep, Dorian lifted his head, expecting to see Flavian finally arriving. Instead, he felt dread grip his heart as he noticed Venatori motifs on the person’s armor. _Not Flavian,_ he thought dryly. Grabbing his book, he slid out of his chair and pulled up his hood, following a small group of excitedly chatting young men as they exited the tavern, thanking the Maker that the place was busy enough that his exit wouldn’t be noted by the Venatori agent.

His heart raced. He’d been set up, and he knew it. The Venatori were hunting down Inquisition agents, and of course he’d come alone. The most they could have hoped was for him to bring the Inquisitor with him, placing the elf right in their laps. He might have even done that, had the situation been better.

Flavian was either dead or not involved. For Dorian’s sake, he hoped not involved. The man could prove to be dreadfully useful at times.

For now, he had to get out of Redcliffe and make sure he wasn’t followed. If he could meet up with other Inquisition agents, he could warn them of the Venatori, too. His memories weren’t great after the drinks, but he tried to dig through his mind for something about where the rifts were.

Settlements. Josephine had mentioned settlements. That meant somewhere to the west.

That also meant he’d be camping tonight, alone without anyone to keep watch. Wonderful, just wonderful.

He took off along the road leading out of Redcliffe to the south on foot, praying to the Maker that he would survive the night.


	4. Simply Not Fair

_The dragon stared at him, its flesh twisted by the blight and tendrils of smoke leaking out of its mouth as it breathed. It watched as the elf stood frozen with fear. Its face was blank: No amusement, no anger, no hatred… nothing. Like a cat that had cornered a mouse, simply waiting for the next move and ready to lash out when its turn came. The unearthly heat of red lyrium emanated from its entire body, making him shiver at the wrongness of it._

_Its master’s face was filled with rage, and he yelled words that the elf could not understand. The pain of the mark overwhelmed him, and he could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears. His heart beat erratically and he gasped for air as he tried to stand. He had to save his friends, had to find a way out of this, save the Inquisition, save everyone who was relying on him not to collapse under the weight of the fear in his chest._

_But he couldn’t do anything. Slowly, a grin spread over the ancient man’s face, and he flicked his fingers towards the elf. The dragon’s head snapped forth, latching onto the elf’s leg as he screamed, thick blood running darkly down his leg. And then he was falling, ice clawing through his robes to scratch his skin, unable to stop his descent, darkness overwhelming him…_

He awoke with a gasp, swallowing down as much air as he could as he panicked.

 _The caverns beneath Haven,_ he thought, eyes darting towards icy stone walls. He sat still for a few minutes and closed his eyes, willing his ragged breaths to come slower. It was just as he remembered it should be, the cold as still and numb as it had been before, his ankle aching in a way that told him his body was only hiding more pain from him.

What was not as he remembered was the rope around his wrists, tying them behind his back and stopping him from brushing hair out of his eyes. That wasn’t right—who would tie him up after that fall?

Mahanon slowly blinked his eyes open again, flinching as he saw a shadow flicker. He was not in a cavern, and though the place was cool, it was not the same as what he had thought; the air was not stagnant, and he was not surrounded by ice, but solid stone. The cold was not the chill of winter but the absence of the sun’s warmth.

The pieces in his mind came together, bringing him fully back to the present. Not Haven. No dragons and no magisters. That was all months in the past.

He could see little from his position. Three of the four walls surrounding him were uncomfortably close and made completely of smooth stone. The fourth was made of bars, small runes to block magic carved into the sturdy metal. Other cells must have been aligned next to his. The opposite wall was a good deal away from him, with a small torch ensconced there, flame flickering slightly. A wooden chair webbed with cracks sat nearby, and he idly wondered if it would collapse under Iron Bull’s weight.

There was nothing else in his cell, not even a bedroll or fur to lie on. Just the cold, dark stone beneath and around him, flecks of blood dotting the spot where his head had been. He frowned, attempting and failing to remove his hands from their bindings to check his head. His memories were not cooperating with him yet, and he couldn’t remember what had happened after rushing through the trees with his companions.

A hand hit the bars of his cell from the side, and he yelped and pushed himself further into the cell, awkwardly using his legs to maneuver. He mentally swore at himself—when had he become so jittery? The face to match the hand appeared as the man walked fully in front of his cell, a smirk on his face (which might have been considered handsome, in most other situations).

“Venatori,” Mahanon whispered, recognizing the armor.

The other either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. “I wouldn’t scream again if I were you, little rabbit,” he said, and the elf, despite his exhaustion, wished he had the mobility to punch the man. Instead, he opted to bare his teeth, which only widened the human’s smirk more.

The man reached into his leather jerkin and pulled out a wickedly curved blade, its handle indicating that it was quite expensive. He tapped it lightly against the bars. “You stay quiet, you keep every part of your body intact.”

Mahanon relaxed his expression to something more neutral, realizing the position he was in and not wanting to give in to the man’s games. “What do you want?” he asked, staring into his captor’s eyes.

He hit the bars again and Mahanon flinched, eyes shifting to the ground. “’Quiet’ means no questions, girl.”

With that, the human walked off, neither of them saying anything more. Mahanon shook with anger and pain, still disturbed by the nasty dream he’d had and now upset that this man was able to get under his skin with so few words. He had been respected by humans long enough to not have to worry about them calling him nasty slurs or assuming he was a girl just from the pitch of his voice and shape of his chest.

That thought gave him pause as he grimaced at the floor. Was that Dorian’s problem with him? His body? They’d discussed it a few times previously, and it had never been an issue before even during sex, but was Dorian just being polite? Trying not to hurt his feelings?

Stubbornly, he pushed the thought out of his mind. It wasn’t worth worrying about that when he could simply ask later. _As you should have done in the first place,_ he chided himself.

Focusing on the current situation, he returned to putting together the pieces of what had happened. Being held captive by Venatori was particularly strange. Was this a rogue group, trying to use the Anchor to rival Corypheus? Would Corypheus find some use for him if he remained alive? Or did they want a dramatic execution? Whatever it was, he was alive—meaning he could find some way to escape.

He relaxed into one of the back corners of his cell, stifling his tics as much as possible. He didn’t want to be an obedient little elf, but he was certain the man would carry through with his threats if he made too much noise. Neither desiring to sleep nor to ponder these particular questions, he decided to pray, seeking comfort as much as guidance.

* * *

 

“Oh, Maker, this is simply not fair.”

Dorian, having only brought along enough rations to travel to Redcliffe and fleeing before buying more, was starving. He had found a relatively hidden location to set up his tent overnight, and his rest had been fitful and worried, leaving dark circles clinging to his eyes. After making a brief attempt to catch a rabbit or two, he had given up and gone fishing, trying to catch some fish in a small net he had hidden away in one of his pouches at Blackwall’s insistence.

Dorian would have to thank the man for his suggestion. Someday. Eventually. Probably.

Now, he held a few small yet edible fish in the net in his hands, and a rather hungry bear standing right across the small stream from him. It could be on him in seconds, but it was staring at him. Perhaps waiting for him to make a move.

“Go on, get,” he said, removing a fish from the net and flinging it at the beast. It didn’t move as the fish landed next to it, still staring dangerously. “What, not enough fish? Come, now, you’re a _bear_ , you’re not supposed to be picky. Or are you an Orlesian bear? Do you need me to filet it for you as well?” The mage slowly lowered the net with a sigh and drew his staff. He really didn’t know how to deal with animals, but he didn’t want to face a hostile bear while unarmed, if it decided to attack him.

The bear growled and Dorian sparked a bit of lightning at it in a final attempt to scare it off, but instead it rushed at him furiously with a roar. He shoved his staff in front of him to block the bear’s attack, but its weight knocked him back, viciously sharp teeth ripped into his fingers before he fell. Abandoning his staff, he was able to roll away from the creature and prepare another lightning spell, loosing it quickly and letting out a hiss as the energy aggravated the new injury.

Stunned in mid-turn, the bear couldn’t move, and Dorian let out the breath he had been holding as he pushed himself to his feet. It had red lyrium jutting out of its side, most of it hidden beneath its thick fur, but there was no way the mage could ever mistake the red of that mineral for blood or flesh. Filled with revulsion and a dash of pity, he cast another, stronger lightning spell, killing the poor bear and taking his breath away.

Its corpse collapsed beneath its own weight. The area was filled with the smell of charred flesh and the tingle of magic, and Dorian found he was put off by the thought of eating any fish right now. He panted and sank to his knees next to the stream, gingerly dipping his fingers into the water. Biting his lip, he went through the process of cleaning, drying, and bandaging his hands—he’d apply a salve once he’d gotten the cuts closed up. He winced; if he didn’t have the luck to run into Solas, that meant stitches.

Staff in hand, he continued west, skirting around the first settlement he came across. It was really a small village, no more than a few important buildings, built for farmers and hunters. Chances were the Venatori who had tried to lure him out had already arrived without unpleasant interruptions from violent bears, and he didn’t want to run straight into one.

Thankfully, the rift in the area was visible from the trees he was attempting to hide behind, and he breathed a sigh of relief before grinning wryly. All the things in the world he could be thankful for, and here he was, glad to see a glowing green hole in the sky, demons pouring out of it. He could also see a few figures fighting the demons, but couldn’t make out who they were. The trees there weren’t thick, but they were too far away and moving too quickly to define.

He made his way over towards them, heart sinking at the absence of flames. Mahanon would even fling fireballs at rage demons, for all the good it did him, because of his love of fire spells. If he wasn’t closing this rift, where was he?

By the time he reached the three—Vivienne, Cole, and Sera—the demons had all been defeated and the rift was fairly stable. Sera shook some demonic goop off her hands and boots, making disgusted faces.

“There comes a point at which being late is no longer fashionable, my dear,” Vivienne said dryly, taking a few steps towards the Tevinter and conveniently avoiding a few chunks of goop flung in her direction.

Dorian flashed her a charming smile. “I’m afraid I had some appointments that could not be rescheduled. Shame, really; I’d rather not get killed before all this Corypheus nonsense is over.”

Sera motioned towards the other three, now mostly goop-free. “C’mon, then, we’d better get dinner before more demons try and kill us.” They headed towards a camp that had been set up on top of a small cliff. There was a small lake that looked to be about a fifteen-minute walk to the north, and the village Dorian had passed earlier sat miles to the east, barely visible. Another town sat on the western horizon, the mountains past it illuminated by the setting sun.

The mage’s stomach growled and, after setting up his own tent for later, he helped himself to some bread and dried meat, ignoring Vivienne’s raised eyebrows. “My previous appointments made eating a little bit difficult,” he said between mouthfuls.

Sera snickered. “You can’t even catch a rabbit, yeah? Grew up in your fancy house and never had to get your own food? What, you just expect it to walk up to you, all skinned and ready to eat?”

“Of course. It’s only the polite thing to do.”

Vivienne frowned as Dorian finished what he had grabbed, and placed a hand on his shoulder as he started to go for seconds, earning her a brief glare. “Do you mind?” he asked with irritation, too focused on food to bother playing with words.

“Darling, your hands are bleeding. I would rather not see the rest of the bread with bits of blood all over it.” Looking down, he noticed she was right—he’d bled right through the bandages, probably from moving his hands too much. Grudgingly, he gave up on eating long enough to undo his bandages and let Vivienne heal his hands. She wasn’t an expert at healing, and he had to down an awful potion afterwards, but at least no needles were involved. He really did need to learn those spells.

“Why isn’t Mahanon here to close the damn thing?” he asked after they had all eaten their meals, running the fingers of one hand over the puffy pink scars of the other.

Sera snorted. “He went to close some other rifts in the south, ones _not_ near people. Sent us up here to kill the demons and help people, should be here in a few days.” She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe give you some time to think about whatever it is you said to make him sad.”

Dorian frowned. It made perfect sense, of course, but it still bothered him. “ _I_ made him sad? Are you completely certain he wasn’t just disgusted with your horrible choice in armor? After all, I—”

He stopped as a knife landed dangerously close to his leg, blade biting into the ground next to him. “Shut it, you,” Sera said, face twisted with anger. “You’re not awful, not like some people, and the Inquisitor’s not great, but he’s better than you. You hurt him. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but if you don’t fix whatever you did, the next knife’s gonna go where you don’t want it to go.”

He glanced at Vivienne and found her looking at the stars, pretending not to hear anything. _So do you blame me as well, Madame de Fer?_ “Sera,” he said seriously, “I didn’t mean to—“

Another knife, this time in the ground between his legs.

“Kaffas! Let me speak!” She played about with a third knife in her hands, watching him carefully. “I did not intend to hurt him and I _will_ fix it. It’s my fault, yes, and I fully intend to apologize and sort this out later. Now, this is a private matter, please stop threatening my delicate parts.”

Sera gave a slow nod, replacing the knife on her belt. “You’d better.” She stood, stretching before heading towards one of the two tents that had been set up before his arrival. “Vivi and you can fight for first watch.” Vivienne’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“Wait, Sera,” he called, and she paused, hand on the flap of the tent. “There’s Venatori in the area.”

“Thought you got rid of them all. What, can’t catch dinner, can’t catch Venatori either?”

“They lured me out here, probably trying to catch the Inquisitor with me. Best be prepared for them in case they find us.”

“That is worrying,” Vivienne said, rising as Sera disappeared into a tent. “Will you be kind enough to take the first watch?”

“No, you two need sleep.”

Dorian nearly jumped out of his skin as Cole appeared beside him. He hadn’t even noticed the spirit’s absence in the first place. The Circle mage, ever eager to stay out of Cole’s presence, gave Dorian a quick nod and retired to the second tent.

“He was sad, hurt, hurt _you_ , is something wrong with me?” Cole said, sitting down on the ground next to the mage.

So this was going to be one of those evenings. “Good to see you too, Cole.”

“He missed you. But he didn’t hurt you, you don’t feel hurt, you just made a mistake and that’s what hurts.”

Dorian sighed. “I did, didn’t I? I said the wrong thing and now he’s off killing demons without me.”

Cole gently laid a hand on Dorian’s arm. “He thinks it’s his fault. Don’t worry. He’ll be here soon. Then you can help some of the hurt.”

“Some of it?”

“The demons don’t leave him. Waiting, watching, following, hidden and between cracks and corners and dark. But not demons. Not really. They just hurt like demons, and you help like honey.”

The reminder of his hallucinations wasn't pleasant, but... _Honey._ Mahanon compared him to honey? His lips twitched, the edges lifting up in the faintest of smiles.

The boy smiled. “You need sleep. I’ll take watch.”

“Thank you, Cole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more on Mahanon's hallucinations, see my short fluff fic "Shadows", which takes place about a month before this fic begins.


	5. Trapped

The night turned out to be filled with interruptions. The rift spat out more demons only two hours after the companions had retired, and Cole woke them quickly to take care of them. And then, of course, the weather decided it was about time to drench everyone with rain. Dorian was downright miserable by the time he was finally able to fall asleep again, and he was quite ready to murder someone when he was yet again woken up, this time at the crack of dawn.

“Sparkler! Get out here! Your beauty sleep will have to be put on hold for a while,” he heard from inside his tent. He responded with a quiet groan, shifting under his covers but not getting up. If Varric insisted on waking him up at such an ungodly hour, he would take his precious time and make the dwarf wait.

At least, he intended to.

A hand sneaked into the flap of his tent, and he opened his eyes at the intrusion, squinting to figure out what was going on. A few seconds later, the hand found what it was looking for, and Dorian let out a yelp as it pulled the blanket straight off of him and outside the tent. He heard Sera cackle as he sat up, cursing in Tevene at both the rogue and the sudden chill.

He was halfway through getting dressed when he belatedly realized that Varric was at the camp. And if Varric was there…

His stomach churned with a mix of anxiety, excitement, and fear. Whether or not Mahanon would even want to talk with him right now, seeing the elf at all would make him feel better. It would at least put some of his worries about the Venatori to rest.

He hastily pulled on the rest of his armor and pushed aside the flaps of his tent, almost tripping over the bundle on the ground that was his blanket. The morning was still dark and mist filled the air; it carried the green tint of the rift, creating an eerily unreal atmosphere. Cole caught his eye and gave him a silent nod before walking past him to start packing up his tent for him.

His frown deepened as he looked around the camp, walking to where the unlit firepit was. Sera was taking down her own tent. Vivienne stood beside a horse—there were three of them, which must have been brought by Cassandra and Varric—while the two newly arrived companions stood by the firepit.

“Where is he?” Dorian demanded, voice almost cracking. _Maker, you’re like a lovesick teenager,_ he chided himself. His mind had already jumped to conclusions just as intensely as he was hoping that everything was alright, and he was trying to stay calm.

“We don’t know,” Cassandra said, “but we may have a lead.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” he snapped. “He can’t have just run off, not with rifts lying around.”

“We were ambushed,” Varric said, making a face. “Venatori. I can still taste that poison. It was set up from the start. There weren’t any rifts down south to begin with; it was all a trap.”

“Then why isn’t he with you? You survived, why didn’t they kill you? They took him with them? Why would they do that?” _Did they take his body as a trophy?_

The morbid thought got caught in his throat. It was definitely the sort of thing the Venatori would do.

Cassandra shook her head. “His body wasn’t there. However,” she said, pulling a folded paper from one of her pouches and handing it to him, “they left this tucked into Varric’s hands. I never spent much time learning Tevene, so I can’t read it. I assume that whoever took the Inquisitor wanted to contact you personally.”

He took the note in his hands, hesitating. It could be from one of his enemies in the Imperium, gloating about killing Mahanon. It could be from his father or another “concerned” party, satisfied to put rumors to rest. Whatever it was, the chance that it was about Mahanon being dead was too real, too terrifying.

When had he grown so attached?

The letter was short, and written in a messy hand. The other two gave him hopeful glances as he let his shoulders relax with a faint sigh, no longer as tense and panicked. “He’s alive,” he said, “according to this letter, at least. Hardly a guarantee, but we’ll take what we can get. What’s strange is that they want a ransom for him.”

Varric snorted. “Definitely a trap, considering the only thing they want with Chirpy is to kill him. What do they want to do, kidnap you and take you back to Tevinter?”

“You’d be surprised at the things some of my old acquaintances would be willing to do. My guess is that somebody wants to cut all official ties between Tevinter and the Inquisition, although my being here is hardly politically significant. Maybe they’re trying to recruit me—what a charming notion.” He tucked the letter into a pocket and mounted one of the horses; Cole had conveniently stuffed Dorian’s tent into one of its saddlebags. “Although I _did_ meet a Venatori earlier. Almost. I had the sense to leave before actually meeting them, at least. Seems I was set up as well, and leaving a note with you may have been the backup plan. Speculation won’t get us very far, however. They want to meet with me in the southeast, near some tunnels.”

“You’re going to walk straight into a trap?”

“Do you have any better suggestions?”

Sera hopped up onto one of the horses. “Better that than killing demons all day,” she grumbled. “That’s been a shite way to spend the week. And we’ll be prepared, yeah?”

Varric frowned. “Wait. Mahanon said something about those tunnels, didn’t he?”

“Smugglers, my dear,” Vivienne said. “They’re trying to open up new tunnels to reach red lyrium veins. Iron Bull, Blackwall, and Solas were sent there to stop them and collapse the tunnels if necessary.”

Dorian froze. _What if Mahanon’s in one of those tunnels?_

“We’re leaving. Now.” He guided his horse past Vivienne’s tent and then took off, not waiting for another word. Sera whooped and followed right behind him.

The Circle mage gave Varric a thin smile and offered him the reins of the remaining horse. “Do try to make sure those two don’t get themselves killed.”

* * *

 

They reached the smuggler tunnels two and a half days later, having shaved a day off the travel time by pushing the horses as fast as possible. They hadn’t seen any signs of either Venatori or smugglers on their way, which was strange at best and deadly at worst—if there had been signs and they’d simply missed them, they could be attacked all too easily.

They came upon the other three Inquisition members in the middle of lunch, sitting on a couple of tree stumps and eating cold rations. Solas looked up at their approach and tucked the remainder of his salted meat and bread into a pouch before standing, while the other two opted to shove theirs into their mouths.

“I take it things didn’t go as planned, considering the delay and direction of your arrival.”

“I commend your masterful observation skills,” Dorian said dryly. “Did you collapse the tunnels?”

The elf raised an eyebrow. “No. We haven’t even been able to find any smugglers. We’ve explored the tunnels thoroughly, but they are empty and unchanged from the last time we were here. Do you have some new information?”

Dorian gestured towards Varric as he turned his steed towards the cliffs just to the south, trotting past the camp.

“Mahanon’s been captured… or killed,” Varric explained, lowering his voice for the last bit. “The rift reports were fake—the ones to the south, anyway; the northern one’s real. Vivienne, Cassandra, and Cole have that one covered for now. We were ambushed by Venatori, they left behind a weird ransom note, and they want to meet with Dorian somewhere around here. He’s convinced there’s a chance that Chirpy might be kept in those tunnels. Convinced enough to walk straight into an obvious trap.”

“We didn’t check _all_ the tunnels,” Blackwall said. “Only the ones that looked stable.”

Solas nodded. “There are still a few that might not cave in on us, but they looked untouched and we didn’t feel the need to risk it.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Bull said, standing up and lifting his greataxe from the ground. “’Vint looked like he wanted to head in those tunnels himself, but he’s not going in without backup.”

Sera and Varric led the way on their horses, keeping a slow enough pace that the other three could follow easily. It only took a few minutes to reach Dorian, who was leaning on the cliff beside his horse next to one of the tunnel entrances. They were few and had a fair bit of distance between them, but they all led to the same network underground.

“They’ve left behind runes on the walls,” he said, indicating towards a small white mark just inside the entrance. “Activated by ice magic. We follow the path, we find the Venatori, we get Mahanon out of there. I’m not foolish enough to go in on my own, but we do need to hurry.” He turned to enter, but Bull placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Slow down a minute,” he said, earning him a piercing glare. “Look, you walk in like that, you’re gonna get killed. Here’s the plan: You pick up the path and direct us. I walk ahead of you—we can’t do this stealthily, so if anyone comes out, they’ll hit me first. Varric walks behind you so he can shoot enemies while I engage them, and he can check that we’re not being followed. Sera, Blackwall, and Solas can function as another unit following two hundred paces behind us. Call out if anyone gets between our groups or a cave-in starts. Understood?”

The group nodded, and Sera made a face at Solas as she hopped off her horse to join him and Blacwall.

“Let’s go,” Dorian said, lighting two torches: One for him and one for Blackwall.

The next hour was spent with Dorian running his hand across the wall at about eye level, channeling a minor frost spell to search for the runes, as everyone else walked and searched about for any movement in the tunnels. Solas alternated between channeling fire and lightning spells, seeking any extra runes that may have been left by the Venatori for their allies. They were led through a number of small tunnels, some almost too small for Iron Bull to fit through, and though some looked very unused there was little danger of them collapsing. Each step rose their anxiety; they were all waiting for something to jump out at them, and the longer they went without being attacked, the more anxious they became.

Eventually they came to a modern wooden door at the end of a tunnel. Bull held up a hand, signaling to the second group to stop, and Dorian placed his torch in a sconce beside the door. Taking a deep breath, Bull drew his axe, gripped it tightly with both hands, and kicked in the door.

Nothing happened.

Bull entered the room slowly, not making a sound. There was a table in the center with a few chairs around it, and a few lit torches in sconces on the walls. At the far end of the room, there was a door in the left wall and another in the wall perpendicular to it. Other than that, the room was completely empty. No furniture, no items… nothing.

Dorian checked about for wards, including the doors on the opposite side of the room, and found none. “Varric, check that the doors aren’t trapped.”

“I really do not like this,” Bull muttered, slinging his axe back over his shoulder. “For all we know they’ve got some demons behind those doors.”

“I doubt that,” Solas called from his position outside the entrance to the room. “I can’t see or feel anything that would indicate a summoning.”

“Let’s just get on with it,” Sera called, out of sight. “Quit waiting around to get jumped and just find something interesting already.”

“All clear,” Varric said, backing up from the doors. Bull kicked in the left one, leading to another room with a couple of lit torches. He stepped back to take a look into the room before entering, frowning as he heard a startled chirp from inside.

Dorian bolted past him.

“Shit! Sparkler!”

Dorian was already halfway across the room. He could see Mahanon’s face—streaked with dried blood and freshly bruised—staring out at him as it pressed against the bars of the cell at the far end of the room. The elf’s expression was oddly blank, until it turned to one of horror and he mouthed the word “no.”

He felt a searing pain in his thigh as he stepped on a trap, a spike of ice jutting out of the ground and impaling his leg. He took one last look at Mahanon, giving him a smile that came out more like a grimace before his vision blurred and he blacked out completely.


	6. Healing

Mahanon bounced his leg restlessly, sitting on a tree stump and ticcing incessantly as he let Varric painstakingly apply salves to his face, staring intently at the tent into which Solas had taken Dorian only an hour earlier. The hedge mage was, regrettably, their only healer; thankfully, only Dorian’s injury had the potential to be fatal. Blackwall and Sera had sustained some minor injuries from the fighting earlier, and Mahanon’s weren’t severe.

It had all passed in a bit of a blur. He’d heard his friends enter the other room—one could hardly ignore Bull kicking down doors, after all—and regretted that he had been too far out of it to notice if there was an ambush waiting for them or not and therefore couldn’t warn them. It probably wouldn’t have mattered much, anyway. He had noticed the glow of the ice trap only a second before it was activated.

There had only been five Venatori there, two waiting in the other cells and three in the other room. They had been quite surprised to see so many people in their little hideout, and were taken out with little effort.

The elf still wasn’t able to focus, but Blackwall had brewed him some tea that had helped with that. His mind felt less clouded.

Of course, he’d spilled the first mug of tea on Blackwall’s (luckily, gloved) hand, muttering an apology and chirping at the man. Varric had brought the second mug to him, leaving Blackwall to tend to the others’ wounds. One of the Venatori had had a full beard much like the Warden’s, which did not seem to be a good sign, but the dwarf didn’t press Mahanon for any details.

“They didn’t really do anything,” he muttered, leaning back from the dwarf’s ministrations to twitch his head to the side a couple of times. “Just punched and yelled at me a bit. Didn’t like my tics.” Varric’s hands had been rough on his bruises at first, but an ice salve had worked to numb his face. It made his words slur a little, since his lips were bruised as well and therefore also needed treatment.

Varric scowled at him, rubbing some elfroot salve above his eyebrow. “Either way, you’re hurt, and should have gotten stitches for the cuts on your arms days ago. You’ll have to wait your turn so Chuckles can tend to those.” Finally finished, he took a quick look at his face and placed the cap on the salve. “I’d suggest that you get some rest, but there may be more in the area. What’s really weird is that they didn’t kill you. Obviously they set a trap for Dorian, but it wouldn’t make sense for them to keep you alive.”

“That’s because they weren’t Venatori.”

Mahanon chirped twice. He turned on the tree stump, watching as Iron Bull approached, smugly holding up a paper with visible lines where it had been folded. “They certainly looked like they were.”

“Then what did they want, exactly?” Varric asked. “Even dressing up as Venatori could be a risky move. It doesn’t exactly let them move freely.”

“To kill Dorian.”

Mahanon’s blood went cold and he forgot to breathe. “Why?” Surely there was a rational answer to this, surely people didn’t just want Dorian dead for whatever reason; but he couldn’t sort through his thoughts as they raced through his head, fogging up his mind again as he struggled to breathe.

Varric placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“Hey, boss, calm down,” Bull said softly. “We’ve got a name, because unluckily for this guy, his assassins kept a copy of their contract. Some ‘Vint noble named Flavian Caetus hired a bunch of Crows to make it look like the Venatori got Dorian. Josephine can discredit him and his house, or Leliana can take care of him, don’t worry about that. Far as I can tell, those were all of them.”

The elf took a shaky breath. He began to respond, but jerked his head to the side at movement from the tent. Solas. His leg started bouncing again as he waited for Solas to get over there, anxious to know if Dorian was alright.

Solas frowned at him. “He is in no condition to see others right now and desperately needs rest. I’m sorry, lethallin. He will be fine, given time, but leave him be.”

Mahanon slumped, letting Solas tend to his arm and resisting the urge to scratch as he felt the wounds slowly knit closed. “I just want to see him. Just for a minute.”

Solas shook his head as he worked his magic. “How are you feeling? Lightheaded? Pain beyond the bruising and cuts? Hungry?”

He hadn’t even noticed the hunger, but now that it had been mentioned, he felt it cut into his stomach and he winced. “Lightheaded and hungry, yeah.” He coughed into his shoulder.

“Turns out the Venatori were actually Antivan Crows,” Varric said, “and Sparkler was their only target. We have a name as well.”

Solas nodded silently. He spent another few minutes tending to Mahanon’s arm, glancing at the other two as they went to help with dinner (presumably stew) with a “Come grab some food later, Chirpy” from Varric.

“Lethallin,” Solas said quietly, “what did they do to you?” He had switched to Elvish.

“Nothing more than what you see,” the younger man responded. Solas still looked concerned. “I can handle a few punches and cuts, Solas. It’s nothing I haven’t gone through before.”

“I saw the way you flinched at Blackwall. Are you certain you’re alright?”

He snorted. “I’ll be over it in a few days. Honest. I’m just a bit jumpy around shemlen right now, especially those who look particularly… human-y. Like with beards.”

Solas held his gaze for a few moments, but he let the topic go. “I lied,” he said, a smirk starting to pull at the corners of his lips. Mahanon shot him a confused look. “I needed you to let me heal you before you hurt yourself on accident. Dorian’s still fragile, but—”

Mahanon jumped up, almost tripping over his feet as he did so, especially considering how stiff his legs were. He ran for the tent, ignoring the rest of whatever Solas had to say, and excitedly pushed aside the canvas flaps.

He grinned at the other mage, who looked up at his entrance with a rather amused expression, and knelt down next to him to give him a rather thorough kiss, pulling back only when Dorian let out a pained whine.

“I never thought the day would come when I considered _kissing_ to be overexerting myself, but it seems as though that’s what my leg has decided.”

“Do you need me to frost it? I can—”

Dorian let out a chuckle, smiling at Mahanon, and that smile was everything to him in that moment. “No. Any more ice and my poor leg might lose a few nerves.” He sighed. “I’m glad you’re alive, amatus.” He lifted his hand to stroke Mahanon’s cheek.

The elf smiled back. “And I you, ma sa’lath.” He lay down Dorian’s hand and leaned down for another kiss, this one gentler than the last. “Ir abelas. I was an ass, wasn’t I?”

Dorian’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “You never are. Never have been, except for your insistence on trying to get yourself killed every other week, which I can excuse on the basis of everyone else being out to get you. I’d really rather you say alive. Makes my own life much less miserable, you see.”

His mouth twitched a few times. “When I left you, back when we were at Skyhold a couple weeks ago,” he explained, voice pained. “I didn’t even let you explain what you meant. I should’ve at least asked you.”

“I hurt you, didn’t I?”

Mahanon lowered his eyes, looking away from Dorian. The lack of verbal response was answer enough.

“Maker, Mahanon, I know I hurt you but that was never my intent. I’m not going to make excuses for myself, however: I know full well I was the ass in this situation. No, don’t argue with me on this, I really did say something awful, didn’t I?”

The elf was too still for his liking. “What is the problem with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you, amatus. I’m serious.”

He shook his head. “I’m strange, I’m really strange, and I know that, Dorian. I make weird sounds and movements, I’m a Dalish elf hanging around with humans, I’ve been declared a figure for a religion I don’t even follow, I see and hear things, my body isn’t what you want, and—”

“ _Mahanon._ ” The elf willed himself to look directly at Dorian, shaking slightly. “You are everything I could possibly want. Your tics, your religion, your body… they are all you, and I wouldn’t want to change any part of you. I love you just as you are.”

 _Love._ That was the first time Dorian had said the word to him, and his heart nearly stopped. “Then why…?”

“Because I never want to lose you.” The human rubbed his temples, moving slowly so as to not agitate his leg. “I was not very clear at all, I’m afraid. I like to pride myself on my way with words, but obviously that night was not a good one in that matter. I didn’t mean to say that that’s all this was to me, just a useful little fling. It’s far more than that. But if it were to end, I wanted to end it sooner rather than later, and while I still had the will to do so.” He chuckled. “I’ve completely lost that will. Difficult to cling to it, really, with you being so charming and all.”

Mahanon tilted his head, chirping. “Is this a shemlen thing? Because that didn’t make any sense at all.”

Dorian sighed. “No, I suppose it didn’t. Let me try that again, then. After all this is over and Corypheus is gone—provided we survive this—what’s going to happen to you? To me?”

“I don’t know. I might stay with the Inquisition, or…” The elf’s eyes widened with realization. “You think I’m going to go back to my clan.” Another few heartbeats passed. “And do you want to return to Tevinter?”

“The thought had passed my mind. My point is, whatever we are now? I don’t want the heartbreak of what comes after. Better to suffer it now rather than later, when the pain might become unbearable.”

Mahanon shook his head insistently. “What a shem thing to say,” he mumbled. “I don’t care what happens after. To the Void with that. We can make it work. Breaking it off now would give us the pain of ‘what could have been.’ I don’t want regrets, Dorian. I love you, and I don’t want to lose any time with you because of what _might_ happen in the future.” He hesitated for a moment. “I won’t force you to stay with me, but I would sorely miss you. You mean so much to me, ma vhenan, and I don’t want you to go, however selfish that makes me.”

Dorian was left speechless, unable to find any words with which he could form an adequate reply. “Amatus…”

“I don’t need you to decide now. I can—”

“No. I’m deciding now, and I’m deciding that as long as you’re trying to make this work, so will I. Fasta vass, but you are a ridiculous man, aren’t you?” There were tears welling up in his eyes. “Now shut up and kiss me again.”

Mahanon leaned down to kiss him for the third time that night, resting a hand on his lover’s chest as they shared the tender moment. There might still be a few things to sort out between them, and only time would tell where this would take them, but for now they still had each other.

“So, back to Skyhold?” Mahanon asked. “We know who hired these men. Assassins, not Venatori. Shouldn’t be difficult to stop them from trying to kill you again.”

“I do love having all the attention put on me, but isn’t there a rift you should be closing?”

The elf tilted his head again. “The reports were all fake; there are no rifts.”

Dorian let out a short bark of laughter, groaning as pain jolted through his leg. “We’ve left Vivienne, Cole, and Cassandra to deal with the one up north, between the farming villages. I daresay you’re going to owe Vivienne quite a lot after leaving her with Cole for over a week.”

Mahanon looked at him in disbelief. “She’s going to murder me,” he whispered in horror.

The other mage’s grin faded as he took in his lover’s face and arm, changing the subject. “Are you alright? Maker’s breath, but you look worse than I do.”

“First Solas, now you. I promise, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re lying, I can tell.”

The elf grimaced. “The injuries are all superficial and they didn’t do anything too atrocious to me, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just a little jumpy around humans. Started seeing things again, too.” He grasped Dorian’s hand between both of his own. “I’ll tell you if it starts getting out of hand, alright? I’m just going to be skittish and frightened for a few days. By the time we reach that rift I should be back to normal. My own normal, at least.”

Dorian nodded. “I will be by your side if you need me, amatus.”

“And I will be by yours, vhenan, so long as you will have me.”

They shared one last kiss before Mahanon left Dorian, leaving the wounded man to sleep as he went to help himself to dinner. He noticed Blackwall and Sera subtly exchanging coins—Blackwall had won whatever bet they had, apparently—and Varric beckoned towards him to sit beside him.

Things were getting back to normal again, and he couldn’t be happier.


End file.
